


The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier

by Englishtutor



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A mysterious disappearance, Gen, Government Cover-Up, John is a professional author, Sherlock is a rubbish story-teller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 14:58:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10516059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englishtutor/pseuds/Englishtutor
Summary: When Sherlock disparages John's writing ability, John challenges him to write up a blog entry of his own. The result is a case which had been classified a military secret for many years, now to be revealed for the first time. A modern re-telling of the original tale by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This is for my dear friend, Ennui Enigma, who requested it almost a year ago!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For my dear Ennui Enigma: sorry it took so long!
> 
> This story is based on ACD's original tale, "The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier." All of the quotes I've used from his story are in italics, with the usual apologies to Sir Arthur.
> 
> A/N: "The Blanched Soldier" is one of the very few Sherlock Holmes adventures which is told by Holmes himself. However, reading through it with the eye of a literature teacher, I realized that although ACD kept Holmes' voice through parts of the story, in the best-written passages he reverts to his more customary "Watson-style" of description. It made me fancy that Watson insisted upon some strenuous editing before allowing Holmes to send the story to The Strand!

"No," John said firmly. "Sherlock, just . . . no."

Sherlock stopped his pacing and, whirling like a bird of prey upon his friend with a dramatic swoop, leaned over John's shoulder to peer at the laptop's screen. "'No' to which part?" he demanded, insulted.

"To all of it, for various reasons," John waved his hand vaguely in the air. "I'm taking it down from my blog and putting it in a word document for extensive editing."

"Editing? My grammar is impeccable!" Sherlock growled impatiently as his friend-turned-critic tapped at the keys with excruciating care. The detective was incensed, his black curls shaking with outrage.

"I suppose it is," John shrugged mildly. "But there's more to storytelling than good grammar, Sherlock. And my readers have come to expect a certain standard in my blog posts."

Sherlock frowned and took to pacing again. His blogger obviously did not understand the subtleties of skilful composition. He scoffed, "Standard! Your readers have come to expect lurid, melodramatic drivel rather than scientific method, you mean. And you are the one who challenged me to write an experience of my own."

"After you obnoxiously pointed out how superficial my accounts are and accused me of pandering to popular tastes instead of confining myself rigidly to facts and figures," John retorted cheerfully.

Sherlock now wondered whether his diatribe of yesterday against John's writing style had rankled his friend somewhat. 'Try it yourself, Holmes!' John had snapped at the time, compelling the detective to take up pen in hand just to show him. Or rather, to hack into John's blog and type up a case for himself.

"You have to admit, Sherlock, that the case should be presented in such a way as may interest the reader," John now added with a knowing smile.

"Interest the reader!" The would-be blogger threw himself into his chair with a petulant expression, folding his lithe body into it. "This case can hardly fail to do so, as it is among the strangest happenings in my collection," he groused. "And it can finally be told, now that it has been declassified and is no longer considered a state secret." The case he had chosen as his subject had occurred many years earlier, just after John and Mary had married, but had until recently been an "eyes only" incident.

"It was a fascinating case," John readily agreed. "And it will seem so to the readers as well, once I've finished rewriting it."

"And what makes you the expert in writing?" Sherlock demanded crossly, folding his arms.

John smirked. "Four best-selling novels and several successful collections of short stories, with a publisher on my back demanding more," he said smugly.

This was a sore point with Sherlock, though he was loath for John to know it. The fact was, as much of their income now came from John's literary efforts as it did from casework. "Your historical fiction hasn't done so well," Sherlock shot back. "In fact, the only successful works you've published have been all about yours truly."

Unfazed, John gave his flatmate an amused look. "All right, so only about half of my dozen or so published works have been popular. That's more books than most people have managed to put onto a best-seller list. And how much traffic does my blog average in a day?" he added benignly.

"How would I know?" Sherlock grumbled, refusing to look his friend in the eye.

"How many hits per day?" John persisted, grinning.

Sherlock studied the floor. "About fifty to sixty thousand hits," he muttered, barely audible.

"And how much traffic does your blog garner?" the ruthless John continued.

"Numbers aren't important. It's content that matters," the author of 'The Science of Deduction' hedged.

"How many hits?" His blogger was relentless.

"Maybe . . . fifteen," Sherlock grudgingly admitted.

"My blog is our living, Sherlock; it's advertising for The Work," John reminded him. "And so are my published works. Because I know what people want to read."

It doesn't take a genius to know when one is beaten. "All right. Show me where I went wrong," Sherlock sighed.

John scrolled up in the word document on his laptop's screen. "Well, actually this part of the first paragraph started out rather nicely: 'I would take this opportunity to remark that if I burden myself with a companion in my various little inquiries it is not done out of sentiment or caprice, but it is that Watson has some remarkable characteristics of his own to which in his modesty he has given small attention amid his exaggerated estimates of my own performances.'"

"I thought you would like that bit," Sherlock nodded knowingly.

"Yes, it would be quite flattering if you'd only left it at that. But no, you have to go on and ruin the compliment with an insult: 'A confederate who foresees your conclusions and course of action is always dangerous, but one to whom each development comes as a perpetual surprise, and to whom the future is always a closed book, is indeed an ideal helpmate.' What the hell is that, I ask you?" John seemed torn between amusement and annoyance.

"How is that an insult? I said you are an ideal helpmate." Sherlock was bewildered.

"'. . . .to whom the future is always a closed book!' If you're going to damn me with faint praise, you must expect me to take issue." John was trying to look stern, but affectionate laughter danced in his eyes as he spoke.

The consulting detective rolled his eyes eloquently. "You take issue by quoting some obscure poet? Please."

"That 'obscure poet' is Alexander Pope, as you should know. I am deleting that sentence and replacing it with something that doesn't make me look like a credulous imbecile." The tip of John's tongue appeared briefly as he concentrated on his typing. "So much for the first paragraph; on to paragraph two."

Now Sherlock felt suddenly nervous. It was just possible that John might not appreciate the contents of this paragraph either.

"This first sentence is not too bad, of course. You even manage a bit of description: 'I find from my notebook that it was in May of 2014 that had my visit from Lance Corporal James M. Dodd, a big, fresh, sunburned, upstanding Briton.' Not sure what you mean by 'fresh,'" John mused. "I'll change that to 'young', I think." He quickly did so, leaving Sherlock to fret as he waited for the next sentence to be critiqued.

"It's meant to be amusing!" he burst out at last, before John could say anything.

To the detective's relief, his friend chuckled warmly, his eyes on the screen. "'The good Watson had at that time deserted me for a wife, the only selfish action which I can recall in our association.'" John looked up fondly at his friend. "It is amusing. I rather like it, actually. Mary would certainly have laughed. She loved your sense of humour," he added, a tender look in his eyes. "You always could make her laugh. I miss that sound, Mary's laughter."

So did Sherlock. Mary had been gone for many years now, but not a day went by that he and John did not speak of her. She had been such a part of their lives that it was as if they could not entirely let her go—her vibrant, loving memory lived with them like a warm, tangible presence in the room.

"You and Mary were on your honeymoon during this case. I felt I should mention why you weren't working on it with me. And it felt . . . wrong . . . to leave all mention of her out of it," Sherlock tried to explain.

John nodded. "I know. And it would be fine if all of my readers understood your relationship with Mary. But remember: many of them objected to my getting married at the time. There were many comments left on my blog back then from angry readers who resented her—they thought she was coming between us somehow. This joke of yours would seem to confirm their opinion. They wouldn't understand that you aren't serious."

"Then they would be idiots!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"Nevertheless. That's a can of worms I'd prefer not to reopen after all these years," John sighed.

Sherlock gruffly agreed. John had received as many expressions of relief and even joy from his readers when his wife died as he had condolences, which had as greatly dismayed Mary's friend as it had her husband. Sherlock had no desire to put John and himself through such an experience again. "It was thoughtless of me. I was thinking of how she would enjoy the joke. Delete it, of course."

"Sentiment!" John smiled fondly and made the correction. "Now this next bit," the old soldier forged on. "You gave a decent description here: 'It is my habit to sit with my back to the window and to place my visitors in the opposite chair, where the light falls full upon them.' But then you go on to show yourself to be an insufferable dickhead. I've gone to a lot of trouble over the years to present you to the public as a loveable if eccentric genius, and you undo all my careful work in a few paragraphs of showing off like a pompous arse." The laughter in his voice took all sting from the words.

Sherlock was perplexed. "You constantly call me an insufferable dickhead," he reminded his friend. "And 'Pompous Arse' is almost my nickname."

"True," John agreed, chuckling. "But I mean it affectionately, you know. Listen: 'I have found it wise to impress clients with a sense of power, and so I gave him some of my conclusions.' Meaning, you dissected him within an inch of his life just for the hell of it."

"It's what I do!" Sherlock insisted. "It's how I work!"

"I know! I know that better than anyone!" John exclaimed. "But how many people have you endeared to yourself with your pompous arsery?"

"You!" the consulting detective pointed out.

John smirked. "And?"

"Mary."

"True, she adored you. And?"

"Mrs Hudson. Molly. George."

"Greg. And?"

No one else came to mind. "All right, reword it as you like to make me seem more. . . . what did you call it?. . endearing," Sherlock spat this last word out sarcastically.

"'Lovably eccentric,'" John grinned broadly and set to typing again. Sherlock began to pace once more, driven to motion by the painfully slow clicking of keys by his friend's fingers.

"There," his blogger said at last. "Now on to the body of your client's story. Except you didn't write his story, did you? You merely outlined its most salient points. A literal outline." John gazed at his flatmate with a look of incredulity. "It's a very concise, proper outline, of course; Roman numerals all in place, points and sub-points lined up perfectly. But, Sherlock, no one wants to read an outline of a case. They want to read a story."

"It's more efficient," Sherlock explained. "No unnecessary details cluttering up the data."

John snorted with amusement. "It's the details that make it interesting. Look, instead of listing facts, we should let James Dodd tell the story himself. It was obviously an emotional, even frightening, time for him. The readers want to feel what he felt; see what he saw. This part should be a dialogue between Dodd and you as he tells you what happened."

Sherlock frowned. "I don't have a recording of what he actually said—just notes that I jotted down at the time. We've no way of reproducing his story as he told it to me."

"Sure we do!" John exclaimed. "We know all the facts of what happened. We know the young man—his personality and such. We know the places he talked about and can describe them. We can piece together a very convincing dialogue based on what we know."

Sherlock was intrigued. "John, I've always thought of you as the most honest man on earth. I had no idea you would be open to prevarication on this scale."

"You have no idea," John grinned wickedly, "what a writer is capable of doing in order to make a good story. Get me your notes and we'll get started."

000


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The following is Sherlock's blog entry, heavily edited by John. The friends' heated discussion of proper story composition is included in brackets. All quotes from ACD's original story are in italics.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" I inquired knowingly. I have found it wise to impress clients with a sense of power, and so I gave him some of my conclusions. "Iraq, I presume . . . ."

"Yes, sir," young Lance Corporal Dodd answered with some surprise.

"Twelfth Regiment Royal Artillery, no doubt."

"That's so, Mr Holmes. You're a wizard, you are."

I smiled at his bewildered expression. "When a strapping young man enters my room with such a tan upon his face as an English sun could never give, it is not difficult to place him." I crossed my legs and leant back in my chair, steepling my fingers against my chin. "Perhaps you could explain why you've come to me for help," I encouraged the young soldier.

000

["This is a travesty!" Sherlock exclaimed, interrupting John's reading of his rewritten blog post. "That is only a fraction of the deductions I recorded concerning James Dodd!"

"The 'shock and awe' bombardment of poor James Dodd, you mean," John retorted. "I deleted all irrelevant deductions. I mean, really! What do the two kittens his girlfriend owns have to do with the case? Or the fact that Dodd's family breeds champion horses? Or the number of eggs and sausages he'd consumed for breakfast? For someone who claims to detest extraneous information, you certainly included a great deal of it here, you perfect show-off!"

Sherlock wanted to protest, but John's description of his stream-of-consciousness deductions intrigued him. "'Shock and awe'?"

"The common name for a military strategy. The correct term is 'rapid dominance'," John explained with a perfectly straight face. "It's the use of overwhelmingly spectacular displays of force to paralyse the enemy's perception of the battlefield and destroy their will to fight."

Sherlock nodded his approval. "A very effective method of taking control," he agreed.

John snickered. "It can be very effective against a foe, but a bit of overkill when used against one's own clients."

"Oh," Sherlock said.]

000

I crossed my legs and leant back in my chair, steepling my fingers against my chin. "Perhaps you could explain why you've come to me for help," I encouraged the young soldier.

"I was given to believe you know everything without being told," James Dodd grinned mischievously, but the grin quickly died and the young man grew deadly serious. "I will give you the facts, and I hope to God that you will be able to tell me what they mean. I've had four months of sleepless nights puzzling my brain, and the more I think the more incredible it becomes.

"When I joined up four years ago, Godfrey Emsworth joined the same squadron. He is Colonel Emsworth's only son – you've heard of the Colonel, I assume? The family has owned an estate at Tuxbury Old Park for generations. Near Bedford?"

"Irrelevant. Continue," I said brusquely, closing my eyes to listen.

000

["How could you possibly know that I spoke brusquely?" Sherlock demanded brusquely. "Or that I closed my eyes to listen?"

John only gave his flatmate a level, steady look and then continued reading. Sherlock closed his eyes to listen.]

000

James continued, undaunted. "Anyway, Godfrey had the fighting blood in him; it's no wonder he volunteered. There was not a finer lad in our regiment. We formed a friendship – the sort of friendship which can only be made when one lives the same life and shares the same joys and sorrows. He was my mate – and that means a good deal in the Army. We were assigned to the installation in Bosra, and for nearly four years we took the rough and the smooth together."

000

["Sounds familiar, doesn't it?" John smiled fondly at his friend.

"Sounds like poetry," Sherlock snorted derisively. "I'm quite certain this twenty-something soldier-boy did not speak in poetry."

"I should think you of all people would know how poetic a soldier can be," John grinned.]

000

"Then one day, Godfrey and another lad, Smythe, were sent to Baghdad to make a pick-up. They were gone far too long for such a trip, and then later I heard they had gone missing. The lorry they had been driving was found abandoned on the road, and there was no sign of them. There was a short investigation – far too short for my liking, but, of course, I had no say in it – and they were listed as MIA. It made no sense – if they'd been captured by the enemy, we would surely know about it, and why would it be a secret? Some of the lads were saying they'd gone AWOL, but he wouldn't have, Mr Holmes. I know Godfrey like I know my own brother, and he wouldn't desert. Something happened to him, sir, something strange, and I mean to find out what," the young soldier declared with a steely determination.

James Dodd appeared to be the sort of person whom it would be better to have as a friend than as an enemy. His blue eyes were stern and his square jaw had set hard as he spoke.

"What have you done about it?" I asked.

"Well, I started out asking questions," Dodd's lip curled. "Until my CO told me to shut it. He wouldn't say why, but it seemed apparent that the incident was considered classified. Then I took my questions underground, as it were. I found out who had been in radio contact with Godfrey last. This fellow, Ralph, was reluctant to talk to me, but he saw I wouldn't give up, and he was a friend of Godfrey's, too; so with a bit of persuasion he confided in me. It was through him that I found out exactly where the lads were when they vanished.

"First leave I got, less than a week after the incident, I drove to the site myself. But there was nothing there. Not a scrap. Not a sign. Just desert. And when my CO found out I'd been there, he was furious!

"'What is your reason for this insubordination?' he demanded.

"'I was fond of Godfrey, sir,' I told him. 'Many ties and memories united us. Is it not natural that I should wonder at his sudden disappearance and should wish to know what has become of him?'

"'Many people, Lance Corporal, would take offence at your infernal pertinacity and would think that this insistence had reached the point of damned impertinence,' he snapped.

"But, in for a penny, in for a pound, I thought. I said to him, 'Sir, there was no braver man in our regiment. He pulled me out once from under heavy enemy fire or maybe I should not be here. He deserves better than to just disappear without an inquiry or explanation.'

"But the old man just warned me to drop the matter or face court martial, and then he turned to walk away. 'Sir!' I called after him, 'please, sir, answer one question before you leave! Is Godfrey dead?'

"He could not face my eyes. He was like a man hypnotised. The answer was dragged from his lips—a terrible and unexpected one.

"'I wish to God he was," he muttered, so quietly I doubted I heard him correctly. And then he marched out of the room.

And so I came to a dead end, Mr Holmes. There was no getting past it. I could only pretend to accept the situation and register a vow inwardly that I would never rest until my friend's fate had been cleared up."


	3. Chapter 3

["This seems unnecessarily wordy, John," Sherlock grumbled, growing restless. "And far more dramatic than it needs to be."

"It's a story, Sherlock. Not a report," John reminded him patiently. "The details and the drama are what keep the reader interested."

"I liked my outline better," Sherlock insisted. "It was neat, concise, and all on one page so one could see all the facts at once."

"That's true. But no one would have ever read it, so what good would it be?" John asked mildly. "And I would get this done a lot faster if you would stop interrupting!"

"Hmph," was Sherlock's eloquent reply.]

"Please continue, Mr Dodd," I said after a long pause.

"After that, I often noticed that I was being watched," the young soldier admitted. "It was very disturbing, Mr Holmes. It felt like some big government cover-up—you know, like that one in America, in that Roswell place. Everyone knows something big has happened, but no one lets on."

I nodded as he seemed to be winding down. "But something new has happened—something that has led you to believe that the situation is not as hopeless as you'd been led to think," I prompted him.

"As you say, sir. A few months later, my tour of duty was over and I was sent home. Don't get me wrong, Mr Holmes-it's good to be home; to spend time with my girl; to go out to the farm and see my family. But it felt all wrong! That I should be home, safe and sound, and Godfrey should be God knows where suffering God knows what. It just isn't right.

I went to see his parents, Colonel and Mrs Emsworth. I thought maybe, as he was career military, the Colonel might have been able to find out more than I had been able to. But they were gone! I met the groundskeeper and some of the other staff: they've had no news at all. The Colonel and Mrs Emsworth just packed up and left in a hurry, not long after Godfrey went missing, but never told anyone where they were going or why. Old Major Enderly, the groundskeeper, said he gets texts once a week giving him instructions, but it's all business—no personal news at all."

Dodd rambled on, describing his fruitless visit to the missing soldier's family estate in unnecessary detail. I pulled out my mobile to pass the time as he rattled on.

It was at this point that I missed my friend Watson most acutely. He has a knack for asking questions that helped to gently guide a client from pointless rambling and to come to the point of a matter.

000

["While that is a most astute observation, John," Sherlock interrupted again, "the fact is that I had lost patience with young Dodd long before he reached this part of the conversation."

John smiled at his friend fondly. "Oh, I'm sure you'd inserted a great many impatient exclamations encouraging him to get on with it. But as I told you, I'm trying to make you seem endearing, not obnoxious."

Sherlock had a strange feeling that he should thank John, although he was not quite certain why. He held his tongue.]

000

"Something more specific and more recent has happened, Mr Dodd," I said sternly, trying to keep him on track. "Something that has led you to believe that I can be of service to you. As I have no access to military or government records, I assume an incident has occurred which a civilian detective may investigate. And yet you hesitate to bring up the matter. Perhaps you feel I won't believe your story, or perhaps you feel I will not find it sufficiently interesting to devote my time to it. Please continue. Your problem presents some very unusual features."

The young soldier shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I don't want you to get the wrong idea, Mr Holmes," he said at last. "I was given an appointment to go to St. Pancras Hospital by LVS to be evaluated after I came home-this appointment was for yesterday. A mental health assessment. It's standard procedure, or so they say. I'm not crazy, Mr Holmes! They implied that my so-called obsession with Godfrey's disappearance has unbalanced me in some way. It's true, I have some symptoms of PTSD, but it's nothing more than what so many other soldiers have gone through. It's nothing more!" The young man was now becoming quite agitated. I again missed my friend Watson, who is such a calming presence in any tense situation.

I leant forward and reassured him, "I believe you. In fact, it's my opinion that many of the symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder are actually quite logical responses to the unusual and violent experiences to which military personnel are exposed. It is simply a matter of retraining the mind to respond differently to stress under the different, less lethal circumstances of civilian life."

[Sherlock looked sidelong at John as his friend read this. He was quite certain that he had said no such thing to young James Dodd. He was sure, in fact, that he had said something more like, "Yes, yes, so you're sane. Go on!"

"Put me up on your soapbox, I see, John," he remarked.

John's lips pulled into a grim smile. "Did I?" he asked wryly.

Sherlock considered that standing beside John Watson, whether on his soapbox or at a crime scene, in Buckingham Palace or in a dark alley, was a far better place to be than anywhere else on earth. But he had no words to express this sentiment. "Go on," he said instead. "It's, ah, good, what you wrote."

John raised an eyebrow and nodded. He understood what Sherlock meant to say even if Sherlock did not.]

"Well, I kept my appointment at St. Pancras Hospital, and it was excruciating, to say the least," Dodd continued, emboldened by my encouragement. "It was hours of questions and filling in forms and going from one office to another and talking to all manner of people about all sorts of personal things. I was frantic to leave, I can tell you! So when I finally was allowed to go, I bolted out the nearest exit only to find it was drizzling rain and I was on the wrong side of the building to the street where I left my car. Well, the mood I was in, walking in the rain around the entire hospital seemed more pleasant than going back inside and trying to find my way through it.

"It was getting late, near to dusk, and overcast so it seemed even later. The streetlights were just coming on, and as I passed under one of them, I happened to look up to the first storey of the hospital. And there I saw a face in the window."

My client had paused as one in deep emotion. I waited for him to collect himself and continue.

"He was just inside the window, Mr Holmes, with his face pressed against the glass. The curtains were partly opened and he was framed in the gap. He was deadly pale-never have I seen a man so white. I reckon ghosts may look like that, but his eyes met mine and they were the eyes of a living man. He could see me, standing in the pool of light made by the streetlamp, and I could see him by that same light, plain as day. I couldn't hear him, of course, but I could see by the way his mouth moved that he was calling to me: 'James! James!' he was saying, his hands held up against the glass.

"I was too shocked to move at first. It wasn't merely that ghastly face glimmering as white as cheese in the darkness that left a feeling of horror in my mind. It was how frightened he was, how desperate to reach out to me, so different from the demeanour of the fearless soldier I had known.

"Because I did know him, Mr Holmes. It was my friend Godfrey. It was Godfrey Emsworth standing before me in that window. He was there, and then suddenly he was gone."


	4. Chapter 4

["This is exactly the sort of lurid melodrama I've been complaining about!" Sherlock snarked. "Why not just say that he looked up and saw Geoffrey in the window? That is, after all, what happened."

"Godfrey," John corrected him, rolling his eyes. "And yes, that covers the facts of what happened. But the reader wants to be drawn into the emotions of the experience. They want to feel that same chill down their spines that James felt when he looked up and saw his friend's white face in the window."

"Chill!" Sherlock snorted derisively. "How does indulging in pointless emotion help in understanding the case?"

"It doesn't," John agreed amenably. "But it does help in understanding James. If people want to read facts, they can look up the military records of the case. But people want adventure in their lives. They want what we have—a bit of excitement, something interesting to do. Most people will never experience a true adventure. They go to work, day after day, and do all the little, mundane, vitally important things that civilisations need to keep going. They repair our plumbing, they sell us things in shops, they drive our taxis, they haul off our rubbish. If not for them, the nation would fall apart. But they may never get to have the excitement of a real adventure. So they read about ours, instead. They don't read my blog just to find out how clever you were to discover the solution to a mystery. They read it to feel they were along for the ride, experiencing everything right along with us. Or with our clients, as the case may be."

Sherlock sat and thought about that. "So in a way, you are also helping the nation survive by supplying the needs of the ordinary citizen for excitement and adventure," he said slowly.

John looked pleased. "I hadn't thought of that. I think you're right!" he grinned.]

James Dodd pulled himself together with an effort and continued his harrowing tale. "When a man has been soldiering for four years with terrorists as playmates, he keeps his nerve and acts quickly. Godfrey had hardly vanished before I was casting about, looking for a way up to the window. But it was impossible. So I tore back around the building and into the entrance I had left such a short time before.

"I went to the front desk and said I was a visitor for Lance Corporal Godfrey Emsworth. I thought the clerk had a rather guilty air as he told me no such person was in hospital. And he kept watching me as I walked away, and then picked up a telephone and called someone, stilling looking at me. It was unnerving, I can tell you!

"But there was nothing more I could do. The hospital was so large and so rambling that a regiment might be hid away in it and no one the wiser. And the hospital personnel were not about to allow me to wander the corridors at liberty. Every door was closed to me, every person who saw me turned me back, and no one would answer any questions I had.

"I went outside again to have another look at Godfrey's window, but the curtains were now pulled shut without a crack. As I stood there, contemplating the logistics of bringing a ladder round from my family's farm, security arrived to escort me from the grounds. I was adamant that I would not leave until I had discovered what had happened to my friend. The security guards threatened to call the police if I didn't leave quietly.

"At this, I lost my temper, Mr Holmes, and I spoke with some heat. 'I have seen Corporal Emsworth, and I am convinced that for some reason you are all concealing him from the world. I have no idea what your motives are in hiding him away, but I am sure that he is no longer a free agent. I warn you! Until I am assured as to the safety and well-being of my friend I shall never desist in my efforts to get to the bottom of the mystery, and I shall certainly not allow myself to be intimidated by anything which you may say or do to me.'

"And then I left, with full intention of coming straight to you and asking for your advice and assistance."

Such was the problem which my visitor laid before me. It presented, as the astute reader will have already perceived, few difficulties in its solution. Still, elementary as it was, there were points of interest and novelty about it which may excuse my placing it upon record. I now proceeded, using my familiar method of logical analysis . . . .

["Damn. I meant to go back and alter that paragraph," John muttered, this time interrupting his own narrative. "I took out the solution you revealed below it but forgot to delete this introductory bit. It makes you look such a prat."

Sherlock was confused. "You deleted my solution to the mystery? But why? This is exactly when I solved it. After this, it was only a matter of gathering evidence to prove what I already knew I would find."

"I know, Sherlock, but it isn't fair to the reader to give away the ending in the middle of the story," John explained distractedly, his fingers hovering over the keys as he contemplated whether to delete the paragraph entirely or merely it change it a bit. "After all, he is a prat. Perhaps I should leave it as it is," he murmured his thoughts aloud.

"But I was relating the case in chronological order!" Sherlock objected, ignoring John's mutterings. "This is when I deduced the answer. The rest is just clearing up details!"

"I know, I know," John soothed. "And you want to look clever by having solved the case early on. But you can't cheat the reader like that. You have to give them a chance to solve it, too. That's part of the fun of reading a mystery-trying to find the solution from the clues, just like the detective."

"Why? The interest is in finding evidence that proves my solution to be the correct one," Sherlock was bewildered.

"For you, that is the interest," John nodded patiently. "For the reader, the mystery itself is interesting, as well as the people involved. The solution should be the climax of the story, right at the end, after all the evidence is presented. That gives everyone a fair chance at deducing the answer."

Sherlock sulked. "I'm sure none of the imbeciles that read your blog ever discover the solution," he protested.

The corner of John's mouth slipped up into a half-smile. "Perhaps not. But they enjoy trying. And this is meant to be entertainment, Sherlock, not a lesson in how clever Sherlock Holmes can be."

"I thought you said it was advertising," Sherlock groused.

"That, too. But advertising must be interesting. Otherwise, no one pays it any attention." John turned back to his laptop. "I think I will leave this bit in after all," he mused. "That should make you happy, Sherlock. The readers will know that Clever Clogs Holmes solved the mystery at this point, but I won't let on what the solution is; I'll give them a chance at finding it out."

Sherlock wanted to feel gratified that he had won this round of the ongoing disagreement. But somehow, he felt John had got the better of him after all.]


	5. Chapter 5

I now proceeded, using my familiar method of logical analysis, to narrow down the possible solutions to one. Although I was certain I had come to the correct conclusion, more evidence was needed to prove my theory valid. I leant forward and looked the young soldier in the eye.

"Why Roswell?" I demanded sharply.

Dodd looked startled. "I beg your pardon, sir?"

The narratives of Watson have accustomed the reader, no doubt, to the fact that I do not waste words or disclose my thoughts while a case is actually under consideration. "You said this case seemed like a government cover-up and mentioned Roswell as an example. Why?"

"Oh, I suppose because of what Ralph had told me," Corporal Dodd replied.

I raised an eyebrow.

"Ralph. You know, the radio dispatcher I talked to—the last person to speak to Godfrey before his disappearance. Ralph told me that the lads saw something crash into the desert close by where they were driving and they diverted to investigate. That's what made me think of Roswell, I guess, although of course, the craft that crashed wasn't a UFO. It was a drone, and not one of ours. Not American, either. Something they'd never seen before. And it wasn't a surveillance drone. It had a payload. They called for bomb disposal. But, Mr Holmes, the EOD were never dispatched; Ralph was quite sure of it.

"The area was closed off for a couple of days, although nothing was ever said about it. When I went to have a look, as I said, less than a week later, there was nothing to show that a crash had even occurred."

I nodded, my theory confirmed.

000

[John paused once more and looked at his friend with amusement. "I'm surprised you'd even heard about Roswell," he commented with exaggerated nonchalance.

Sherlock shrugged, also affecting a casual air. "Everyone's heard of Roswell."

"Everyone's heard of the Prime Minister, too. Everyone but you," John chuckled. "I'm just surprised you cluttered up your hard drive with such drivel."

"Good thing I did, as it was Dodd's reference to it that sent my mind onto the right track," Sherlock hedged.

John looked the detective in the eye. "At this point, Mary would have said, 'Fibbing, Sherlock. I can tell when you're fibbing.'" He repeated her words, imitating her musical lilt.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You never could. I rue the day she taught you how to tell when I'm 'fibbing.'"

John waited, arms crossed over his chest. Sherlock deliberately avoided his gaze for some minutes. John cleared his throat.

"Fine!" Sherlock waved his arms in surrender. "I Googled it on my phone when Dodd mentioned it. Happy?"

John laughed. "Oh, yeah, very."]

000

I nodded, my theory confirmed. "You say that you saw your friend's face quite clearly at the window, so clearly that you are sure of his identity?"

"I have no doubt about it whatever. His nose was pressed against the glass. The lamplight shone full upon him."

"It could not have been someone resembling him?"

"No, no, it was he," Dodd insisted. "And he knew me. He was calling my name, Mr Holmes. I know it was Godfrey."

"But you say he was changed?"

"Only in colour. His face was- how shall I describe it? It was a fish-belly whiteness. It was blanched."

My case was practically complete, and there was only one small incident needed to round it off. "Meet me tomorrow at St. Pancras Hospital. I will text you the time later. We will clear up this entire affair then."

The soldier looked at me, amazed. "Tomorrow? You will have the answer tomorrow? Thank you, Mr Holmes! I've read all of your adventures, you know—everything Dr. Watson has ever written in his blog. I knew from his stories about you that you were my only hope."

000

[Sherlock snorted. "And I see you inserted yourself into the narrative. Again."

"That was a direct quote from the thank you note James sent you. I'll delete it if it troubles you," John offered cheerfully.

"No, no. It's . . . good," Sherlock backed off suddenly. "You may as well insert yourself. You're always there during a case, in my head, anyway, talking through it with me."

His blogger smiled fondly. "Glad to be of service, even when I'm not actually in the country at the time," he said.]

000

It was, unfortunately, necessary for me to coordinate the final act of this mystery with an acquaintance of mine, a grave and taciturn gentleman of iron aspect, who occupies a minor position in the British Government—when he isn't too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis. As it happened, he was not negotiating treaties overseas at that time, nor enmeshed in directing the government take-over of a third-world nation, and so he was free to help out a young soldier who had served Queen and Country well and deserved our consideration. I will refer to this gentleman only as 'M'.

When 'M' and I arrived at St. Pancras Hospital, Dodd was already in the lobby, pacing.

"Good afternoon, Mr Holmes," he said, gravely polite. He then held out a friendly hand to my acquaintance. "I'm James Dodd."

"He's with me," I said shortly. 'M' rolled his eyes but remained silent as was agreed. His name was not to be used. He was there for one purpose only, and that was to deal with the delicate bureaucracy of the matter. He led the way to the hospital's office suites, his immaculately impressive appearance and grim aspect scattering employees left and right and leaving them gaping in his wake. When he gave his credentials to the clerk at the entrance desk, the man's eyes grew wide and he jumped to his feet.

"He's expecting you, sir! Come this way!" the clerk said nervously. "I hope all is well, sir. We weren't expecting a government inspection. . . ."

"You've nothing to worry about," 'M' said grandly and condescendingly, "if everything is in order. As I am sure it is."

The Chief Executive of St. Pancras Hospital, a Mr Kent, rose to his feet as we were ushered into his private office. "A surprise inspection is most unprecedented," he said as he accepted the papers 'M' presented to him.

"I'm afraid you've been misled, Mr Kent," 'M' said smoothly. "We have no interest in inspecting your facilities. We are only interested in one of your patients. This is Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective-you may have heard of him. He is investigating the disappearance of Lance Corporal Godfrey Emsworth on behalf of Lance Corporal James Dodd, a friend."

Mr Kent, although clearly incensed by the deception, nevertheless remained coldly civil. He shook the hands of his visitors briefly. "I am sorry to hear of your loss, young man," he said with as much sympathy as he could muster in his outrage. "But it is nothing to do with me or my hospital." He turned to me, then. "I am familiar with your ignoble profession, Mr Holmes, but you must take your reputed talents to some other field. There is nothing here for you to investigate."

"I have seen Lance Corporal Emsworth in this hospital with my own eyes," James Dodd spoke up firmly. "I cannot leave here until I hear from Godfrey's own lips that he is under no restraint."

"Let us see that the young man is well and we will leave you to your work," 'M' said calmly. "I will take full responsibility."

"But I tell you, it's nothing to do with this facility!" Kent cried, his fists clenching in his anger. "This is obviously a military concern—you must go to them with your questions! I have nothing to say about the matter, and I must ask you to leave immediately! I am well within my rights to keep our private wards private. I will call the police if you won't leave voluntarily!"

"You'll do nothing of the sort," I now spoke for the first time. "Any police interference would bring about the very catastrophe which you dread." I took out my notebook and scribbled one word upon a loose sheet. "That," said I as I handed it to Mr Kent, "is what has brought us here."

He stared at the writing with a face from which every expression save amazement had vanished.

"How did you know?" he gasped, sitting down heavily in his chair.

"It is my business to know things," I reminded him. "That is my trade."


	6. Chapter 6

["Why do you have to bring Mycroft into it like some great Deus ex Machina?" Sherlock whinged.

John grinned broadly. "I'm surprised you know the term. And I didn't bring Mycroft into it: you did. You know you'd never have got past security without his running interference for you."

"No one else has to know that," Sherlock grumbled. "I left it out of my narrative."

"So I noticed. And it left a gaping hole in your plot. Everyone in the civilized world knows that you can't just walk into the private office of the Chief Executive of a major hospital without an appointment," John retorted in a sarcastic tone. "Even you knew that, and you are more ignorant of social conventions than anyone in England."

"I am not!" Sherlock protested, but with little heat. "I am not ignorant of them; I merely choose to ignore them."

John stifled a laugh. "All right, then, as you say. But even you could not choose to ignore this particular social convention—you called Mycroft to get you in because you knew there was no other way in, and you needed him to cut through the red tape."

Sherlock huffed. "Well, you didn't have to make him so . . . mysterious and . . . romanticized, did you?"

"Showed you up, did he?" John chuckled. "Believe me, Sherlock, he's an impressive figure, but he's not more impressive than you. After all, you are the one who solved the case. He just opened the door for you, that's all."

The detective brightened. "That's true. He's just a glorified doorman, isn't he? That explains the suit."

It was some time before John could stop laughing long enough to finish reading the blog entry.]

Having forced Mr Kent's hand, we were escorted by him personally to a far wing of the building and shown to a particular door. The man protested strongly the entire time. "This is most unprecedented! Only close relatives are allowed to see patients and then only during visiting hours!" he complained stridently.

'M' tutted with graceful sarcasm and stated dryly, "Mr Dodd has already seen the patient, through the window. I will take full responsibility," he added firmly once again. "You will suffer no repercussions, I assure you."

The nurses on the floor had been called and were expecting us, as was the patient who was awaiting our visit inside his private hospital room.

"Why, Godfrey, old man, this is fine!" James Dodd exclaimed as we entered the room. He crossed to where his friend stood and grasped his hand in relief. The elderly couple who had been sitting with the patient rose to greet their visitors.

"Good to see you, James," the young man smiled warmly. He then introduced his parents, Colonel and Mrs Emsworth, to his friend.

Dodd, in his turn, introduced me to the Emsworth family. 'M' and Mr Kent had taken the opportunity to slip away in order to discuss the legalities of what was to be done next. It was, as Kent had said, a military affair; fortunately, 'M' had the authority to speak for the military.

"I am most pleased to meet you, Mr Holmes. I've heard of your work, of course," the Colonel said gravely, shaking my hand. "I am surprised to meet you, and yet it is most fortuitous. I hope you can help us clear up some points in my son's case which the military has seen fit to keep from us."

I assured him I would do my best.

"But, good God, how thin and pale you are!" Dodd exclaimed, looking his friend up and down.

The patient smiled grimly. "Yeah, I don't quite look the smart Lance Corporal Emsworth of the 12th Regiment Royal Artillery, do I?"

He did have the look of a man recovering from a long and serious illness, his face blanched from lack of light and his clothes hanging from him loosely as if he had lost a vast amount of weight very quickly. He sat down in an armchair, too weak to remain any longer on his feet.

"Tell us what happened," Dodd demanded. "You've been gone for over four months without a word! No one would tell me where you were or what had become of you."

And so young Emsworth told his tale, confirming my own deductions. "Smythe and I were taking a lorry to make a pick-up in Baghdad, as you know. But as we were driving along the most remote and deserted stretch of that road, we saw something streak down from the sky and crash into the desert only a mile or so from where we were. We called it in, and then we started walking towards the crash site to investigate.

"It was a drone, but not of a make I'd ever seen before, nor Smythe either. We picked through the wreckage, expecting to find surveillance equipment. Instead, we found a missile, cracked and twisted from the impact. We called it in and headed back to the lorry as fast as we could! But before we had crossed half the distance, we were ordered to stay where we were.

"There we waited in the silent desert, not knowing what was going on or whether the drone was about to explode. Then lorries came from both directions and in them men in hazmat suits! And we were rushed in ambulances to hospital.

"They told me later that it was known by military intelligence that the Iraqis had been working to develop their own drone technology. But information had been acquired that very day that terrorists had stolen one of the Iraqi's test models and modified it to carry biological weapons."

Dodd looked at me sharply. "Is that what you wrote on that paper that took the starch out of Kent?"

I had the paper in my pocket and I handed it to him. "Anthrax," he read and looked at his friend in dismay.

"Anthrax," he nodded. "They put me on antibiotics as soon as they narrowed it down to that. But I had breathed in quite a lot of the spores. I was gravely ill for some time. Smythe had breathed in more: he was dead in days," the young corporal's voice broke. "I only just found that out," he added, his voice thick with grief. "They wouldn't tell me about him until they moved me here."

"They were keeping everyone in the dark," Dodd said angrily. "They might have told me. Our CO told me he wished you were dead!"

"I wished I was, too," Godfrey admitted. "I was never so miserable in all my life. I was afraid I wouldn't die, at one point—death would have come as a welcome friend, then." He looked about the room fiercely. "I can face a foe head-on—give me a weapon and an enemy to run to, and off I'd go! But this enemy was one I couldn't see and no weapon could protect me from it."

"Of course, they had to keep it quiet," the Colonel mused. "If it had got out that the terrorists had biological weapons and drones to deliver them, it would have caused widespread panic. Think if the media had got hold of the story! Chaos! But still, you'd think they would let his friends know the truth. And my intuition tells me that there's still more to the story that they are keeping back."

"Unfortunately, there are other, more—shall we say 'embarrassing'- factors in this affair," I explained. "And not for our own military. It is our allies who are unfortunately implicated. Because the question we must ask ourselves is, 'from where did the terrorists acquire biological weapons?'"

"That is classified information," 'M' spoke firmly from the doorway where he had reappeared. "And 'implicated' is a strong word. The investigation is on-going, and it will be cleared up, I assure you."

But Colonel Emsworth's attention was now on this new question. "It's the bloody Americans, isn't it?" he demanded harshly. "It's the Ft. Detrick scandal all over again, isn't it? They've gone and 'misplaced' more of their bloody anthrax supply!"

"No one is implying anything of the kind," 'M' firmly asserted. "The investigation is still in its earliest stages. In the meantime, this must remain strictly confidential.

"I have acquired clearance for you to visit Lance Corporal Emsworth, Mr Dodd," he continued, "but knowledge of what happened to him must go no further than this room. Until we know whether this was an isolated incident and have determined the source of the biological weapons, news of this tragic occurrence must not be allowed to become general knowledge."

"We are a military family, sir. We understand the need for discretion," Mrs Emsworth said bravely, her head high.

"I thank you for helping me find out the truth," Dodd added politely.

"Do not thank me," 'M' waved her gratitude away. "It was Sherlock Holmes who discovered the truth of the matter and insisted upon the government taking action on your behalf. " He turned to Godfrey Emsworth. "My office is putting together an alternate story of events. It will be delivered to you within a day or two. When you have recovered your health to the doctor's satisfaction, you will be free to go about your life as you please." With that, he said his final farewells and left.

"How did you find it out, Mr Holmes, from what little information I was able to give you?" James Dodd asked me. "I'm sure that I couldn't figure it out, and I was there!"

And here it is that I miss my Watson. By cunning questions and exclamations of wonder he could elevate my simple art, which is but systemized common sense, into a prodigy. When I tell my own story I have no such aid.

"It is a process of thought," said I, "which starts upon the supposition that when you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

["You left my final paragraphs unchanged," Sherlock observed, nodding in approval.

"I could not improve upon them," John said cheerfully. "I only wish I had been there to see you solve this one. It's a brilliant exercise in deductive reasoning. I'd have given anything to see Kent's face when you showed him that paper!"

"Thank you, John. And your retelling of it is quite adequate," Sherlock returned magnanimously.

John smirked. "It's going in my next published collection of short stories. Actually, I enjoyed writing this with you. You should write more of your own cases out for me to edit. We'll call it The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes. My editor will love it!"

"Perhaps you won't feel the need to rewrite the next one," Sherlock suggested.

"We'll just see about that," John said, closing his laptop with a click.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once more to my wonderfully encouraging Brit Picker mrspencil and my eagle-eyed beta Wynsom. And a special thanks to the very lovely Ennui Enigma, who challenged me to write this. It's been fun!

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my dear Brit Picker, Mrspencil; and to my lovely beta, Wynsom. You both keep me right!


End file.
